Romantic Language Requirements
by sweetdivision
Summary: AU. Andy's stuck taking French 101 her senior year at Northwestern University, and her new project partner just glares at her. What makes this nicely dressed, blue-eyed girl have such an attitude problem? Eventual Mirandy.
1. Partner Up

First day of school. It's a concept that loses its shine by the time you're a college senior. It was my _last_ first day, so I suppose that's something. And there I was stuck in French 101.

It's one of those horror stories you hear about your first or second year. Seniors that push aside their requirements, go on to devour material in their majors and passions while ignoring those silly introductory classes the college wants you to check off so that you can be a liberal-minded intellectual able to function in a multifaceted world.

I was the idiot senior that forgot about her language requirement. The worst part was that while all my other senior friends were sleeping in, I was stuck in a classroom at nine in the morning. The outlook for the semester was already off to a bad start.

My eyes scanned the room, noticing the fidgeting hands of freshmen that had been more responsible than myself, making sure their very first semester included a semester of foreign vocabulary and grammar. There was an upperclassman sprinkled here or there; you could tell by looking at what everyone was wearing. Typically, the older the student, the less they started caring, but the room was filled with people that had clearly taken time. Dresses and skirts, collared shirts and kakis. I was surrounded. It was like I was back in Ohio, forced to go to a service at church with everyone dressed like dolls. I self-consciously looked down, inspecting my Northwestern sweatshirt before shaking my head. What did it matter anyway?

I turned to my left in hopes of catching a glimpse of the clock and determining how late our professor was when a curtain of fabulous blue trapped my attention. I had no idea what kind of skirt it was; anyone that had met me knew my standard uniform involved jeans and whatever shirt had managed to survive two weeks on my floor without getting too wrinkled. But it flowed like water, liquid fabric from which emerged two pale legs. I found myself following the slim appendages down to a pair of heels. They were grey. Greyish blue. Cobalt? I don't know. Bluish grey was the best I was going to be able to come up with at nine in the morning. The cool colors made the pale hue of the legs the adorned appear creamy and inviting.

A shiver ran down my spine, and I ripped away from the shoes to the face atop the body that wore them.

Ice.

The blue hue of her skirt was warm like the ocean, but her eyes were pure ice. I froze at the cold stare that questioned me, eyebrow hitched upward in mild annoyance. I did the only thing a person can do when they've been caught staring at a girl's legs. I nervously smiled.

I received a look of pure death before the young woman slowly turned her head away as if I didn't deserve a second more of her attention.

Well, that was awkward.

I turned to face the front of the room, but I found myself glancing to my left to try and see more of this mysterious, cold girl. Besides her extremely fashionable clothes, the next feature I immediately spotted was her hair. It was like someone had invented a way to melt gold and copper together, and the reddish waves glowed against her dark blue top. Her profile revealed a long, narrow nose. Her features were intense and pointed but she was certainly very beautiful. Suddenly embarrassed with my thoughts and staring, I looked down at my desk and the solitary notebook I had brought for the class.

Before I could continue to embarrass myself, an older gentleman entered the room and approached the larger table at the front and center of the room. Taking great purpose in avoiding the girl in blue, I exaggeratedly looked up at the clock above her head. 9:06. I guess that was fairly on time for a professor.

"Hello, I'm Professor Bisset. This is French 101, so I hope you're in the right place. It looks like most of you are new to the school as well as French. Actually, why don't you raise your hand if you're a freshman?"

Almost all the hands in the class shot into the air. I saw a guy in the front with his arms crossed that looked about as pessimistic as I was for this semester. There was one girl a few rows to my left that was staring at her phone in her lap. I glanced to my left. The elegant woman did not have her hand raised. I frowned slightly; she had a thin build so I assumed she was younger.

"Let me be one of the first to welcome you here," Bisset stated with a small smirk, "Now, I'm going to pass out the syllabus and then take attendance so we can get started. You'll notice on said syllabus that attendance is required for a good participation grade in this class."

Damnit. Looks like I wouldn't be skipping. Not that I was the type of student to really skip all the time. But sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do to get a little more sleep.

Because it was an introductory level class, there were a lot of people and a lot of names. I groaned internally. Maybe I could take a quick nap before he actually started teaching. I rested my head in the palm of my hand and sighed. A movement caught the corner of my eye, and I turned slightly to see what it was.

The girl next to me brushed her hair over her shoulder, placed her hands on her lap, and pursed her lips while glaring towards the front of the room.

At least I would be hearing what this girl's name was soon enough. Calling her the Girl in Blue in my head seemed over dramatic.

I knew my name would be close to the end, and I waited. And waited. Name after name came and went with a responding "here," and still the girl beside me did not answer to any of them. I was wondering if she would maybe follow my name when the professor finally issued a name that made her twitch.

"Miriam Princhek."

"Miranda," was the firm reply as she held her chin high like she was giving a regal command.

"Hm?" The professor stopped, trying to understand why she was saying a different name.

She sat up straighter and stated resolutely, "Je m'appelle Miranda."

The eyes of the professor grew wide and excited. "Parlez-vous français?"

That was really all it took for me to get completely and utterly lost. The two of them went back and forth in this foreign tongue, and the only part I really caught was something about Paris. Whatever it was, Miranda sounded like she had been speaking it her entire life.

At the end of their exchange, the old man grinned and began to cross out something and scribble at his attendance sheet while saying, "Alright then, Miranda."

I was still pretty lost. Why was this girl taking intro French when she obviously spoke it so well? Why didn't she like her birth name? How did she get the nickname Miranda?

Why was I so nosey?

"Andrea Sachs."

"Here. I go by Andy," I said a little too excitedly, jumping out of my thoughts when I heard my name.

"Andy," the professor muttered, writing it down on the form below him. And that was that before he went on to call the remaining names on the list.

There was some discussion about what was on the syllabus. We had to look forward to quizzes and midterms in addition to a final project, but it looked like we would be able to get partners for those. I was dreading the participation grade, and I was going to have to force myself to talk at least once per class in French if I wanted a decent grade. Whatever. I really just wanted to pass.

He had us open to the first chapter in our books, and he started going over some basic introductory phrases on the board. I felt like I was getting the hang of it as I was writing it down in my notes when the old man set his chalk down on the table.

"Let's have you guys try it. Turn to the person next to you. Use the vocabulary in your textbooks and try asking each other some basic questions."

I looked around and noticed that the desk arrangements were rows of even numbers. There were two desks to my right. One to my left.

That meant Miranda was going to be my partner.

_Okay, Sachs. Don't screw it up this time._

When I turned to smile at Miranda, I was once again greeted by a scathing glare. Her overall expression was pure irritation. It was as her gaze trailed down my hoodie in pure judgment that I realized how bad this was going to be.

_Too late. Already screwed it up._

I hesitantly looked down at my book and tried to piece together some words with what our professor had already showed us on the board. Who knows? Maybe she was just having a rough day. I tried to ask her how she was, in French, as cheerfully as possible. I was pretty sure I used the right words. I looked up and waited for her answer. A pause.

She started rapidly speaking in lengthy sentences, as if she were dangling each word in front of me like a tasty morsel she knew I could never have or understand. It sounded nice, but I could tell she was getting a thrill out of my stupidity. Come on, it was an intro level class; she was totally cheating! There was an evil smirk as she just kept going and going using words that I'd have to dig in the back of the textbook to find, if they were even in our pathetic little book.

"Look, I get it," I snapped, "You clearly know a lot more than me. Can you just give me a break here? I've never taken a French class before," I blurted out, interrupting her advanced linguistics.

An eyebrow twitched as Miranda's lips slowly pursed together. A solid beat passed. Just before I was about to give up, a single word came as my response. The "bonjour" that left her mouth felt more like an annoyed insult than a greeting.

I winced as I too uttered, "Bonjour."

A pause lingered as she simply stared at me as if to say "well?"

I looked down at my textbook and cleared my throat. We proceeded to have a deep, intellectual discussion about our ages, where we lived, and if we liked cheese. Miranda's responses were always short and cutting like individual daggers, but I managed to learn that she was a year younger than myself, she still lived in a dorm as an upperclassman, and that she did, in fact, like _some_ cheeses. I stammered pathetically to ask her these questions, and I considered each answer a victory, my own answers extremely limited by what terms were readily available on the pages before me.

Just as I was about to ask which cheeses she liked, or at least try to look through the textbook index for the right words, our professor cleared his throat and addressed the class.

"Very good, very good, I hear some great conversations coming along."

I almost rolled my eyes. He definitely couldn't have been referring to ours.

"In any case, I hope you've gotten to know your partner," he said with a big smile, "The person you worked with today will be your conversation partner for the next few weeks as well as your partner for the final class project at the end of the semester."

I'm pretty sure I heard something in Miranda's head explode.

I felt bad. I realized I wasn't exactly the ideal candidate, but I'm sure any other student in the class would have been at the same level of French as me. I was a hard worker…in my other classes. Anyway, I was a nice person! She didn't have a reason to hate me. Well, yeah, she had caught me looking at her legs. Oops. But it really was because of the pretty skirt that I looked, not because I was checking her out. Mostly.

Crap.

Professor Bisset dismissed the class, and before I could even turn to fumble with asking Miranda for her number or some way to contact her about the project or the class, she was walking briskly out the door.

Double crap.

* * *

"What the hell is up with you?"

I lifted my head from off the table and hazily looked around until I could spot the source of the voice.

"It's only the first day of classes, Andy," Lily laughed, shaking her head, making her black curls bounce before taking the seat next to mine, "Let's not pull a repeat of last year when you practically lived in the lab."

I stared at the computer in front of me, the blinking cursor taunting me for the low word count on the page. I had been trying to work on my assignment for the first issue of the Daily Northwestern of the new semester. I had proceeded to fall asleep beside the lab's bulky desktop computer.

"I didn't have anyone to do the piece on this year's orientation. I literally had to go interview freshmen about what they were looking forward to about college. It made me want to throw up," I whined, sitting up and stretching before turning to the girl getting into the seat beside me, "How's the Arts section going?"

"Great. We got a cool line up of concerts for the first week of classes and something on the new museum exhibit."

I nodded, half listening, glaring at the word document before me.

"You're going to make a great editor in chief of the paper this year. This little assignment should be a piece of cake," she stated, pulling off her sweater. The AC had died, making our paper's humble little office space a bit unbearable. Lily's dark, coffee-colored skin was still in full force after the summer. I frowned when I realized I hadn't even been outside enough this summer to get sunburned.

"I guess," I sighed, "I just don't get how I'm supposed to write this hopeful piece about the new, doe-eyed students when I'm entering my fourth year here and still have no idea what I'm going to do when I graduate."

"Parents still not thrilled about the whole journalist thing?"

"Not really. My dad wants me to go to Stanford for law like he did," I said with a wince, remembering how my last phone call home ended with me crying after I hung up.

"Why don't you just apply? It'll at least get him off your back," Lily shrugged, giving me a smile small.

"True. I clearly look like the lawyer type," I replied, reclining in the lab's chair and posing in my simple t-shirt. My sweatshirt hung on the back of the chair.

Lily just snorted, "Try again, honey," before logging on to the computer next to mine.

"Hey, I'm smart. I know things."

"Yeah, but you look like a hobo sometimes."

I pouted, "It's not my fault our society decided the clothes I like aren't in style."

"Right. Who was it that decided the clothes you like should sit on your floor and not get washed?"

Sometimes it was a pain in the ass when your best friend was your roommate. They had too much dirt on you.

"I just have more important things to do," I paused, staring again at the blink cursor before me, "Like learning French," I quipped sarcastically.

"You're the idiot that forgot her language requirement."

"I know, I know. And now I'm stuck being partnered with this girl that's fluent and hates me."

Lily raised an eyebrow, but I just shrugged it off.

"Long story. We just seem like totally different people. She was in this incredible outfit and had these like piercing blue eyes," I trailed off, remember how intense our brief interaction had felt.

"Uh-huh," Lily said with a small smirk.

"What?"

"Nothing." A look. "Incredible, huh?" Now she was wiggling her eyebrows at me.

"Oh shut up. It's not like that."

"Come on! It's been almost a year since you and Nate called it off. You worked all summer. You're going to be obsessive being the editor for the paper, I can tell. Do not go all psycho this year, please," she demanded, turning in her chair to face me completely, "Take care of yourself."

"I am." Even I could tell there was a hesitation in my answer that lasted a half-second too long.

"I mean try to have some fun," she said firmly but softly, and her hand reached out to touch my arm.

Lily's dark eyes took a moment to hold mine, and I found myself nodding. She smiled, and turned back to her computer screen.

"But first, for the love of God, do your laundry, girl."

* * *

A/N: Hey guys! Sorry it's been awhile since I've written for you. I really hope to have the next chapter out very soon. Please let me know what you think. I know it's very AU, so every thought and opinion helps.


	2. Learn Your Colors

You'd think I'd have my life together at twenty-one. I'd be paying complete attention in class, and, despite the fact I just needed to pass, my advanced intellectual maturity would encourage me to focus for the sheer joy of learning a new language.

I couldn't even tell you what the first five minutes of lecture were about.

It happened sometimes in classes I wasn't incredibly interested in; you get those classes in college sometimes. However, normally it meant a small doodle. Making a note of some story ideas. A quick poem. Purely innocent, somewhat productive moments that would allow me to easily mentally return to the class before me.

I spent the entirety of French class admiring Miranda's legs.

Again, this really wasn't typical for me. A nice guy here, a pretty girl there. After I broke up with Nate, I just wasn't in the mood to really pursue anything, especially when I had my parents oh-so-subtly asking me on the phone every weekend what my future plans were. Who had the time for sex much less something long term?

But Miranda's legs, let me tell you, they put a girl in the mood.

And it really wasn't like they were just poised the right way. The young woman did an awesome job of picking just the right outfit, just the right cut, and it was like framing a picture so everything popped. Then I realized my thoughts probably sounded like every douche bag frat guy on campus. It was kind of a curse being a girl that was occasionally attracted to women. On one hand, you're a lady. You want to respect a lady for her mind and spirit just as you would like to be respected. But dear god, this girl's thighs were artwork. And it made the mind drift…

I had at least tried to keep it to minimum, and I was sure not to openly gape like a drooling monkey. I wasn't really sure why she was ignoring me, but if it had anything to do with my accidental gawking on the first day of classes, I wasn't going to make the situation any worse. I decided today was going to be the day that I had to get her to talk to me like a normal human being. It had been a full week of class, and we still had yet to meet to discuss some of the short terms assignments we were expected to do as partners. Every time I had tried my best to politely offer to meet her when it was convenient for her, she just walked away. I had to get her to do her half of the assignment. Maybe if I could just get to know her more, I could get past just staring at her like she was a sculpture. Who knows, maybe we could be good friends. In any case, we'd get our schoolwork done.

With this final thought, the second the professor waved us on to leave the room, I was shoving my notebook into my book bag and lurching out of my seat.

"Hi, Miranda, I think we should talk about our assignment due next week," I gushed ungracefully.

She didn't even look at me. She continued to place her belongings into a leather shoulder bag that probably made my ratty, old book bag look even worse than it was.

She stood up and started to walk towards the door, and I followed after her rapidly muttering, "It would make sense to get started soon. When can you meet me to work on it?"

The figure quickly moving before me suddenly halted, and I saw a flash of strawberry blonde hair before I was greeted with the same windows of ice that froze me the first time I ever saw them.

"I do not require your help," Miranda spoke with such a calm demeanor that her words slowly stung like poison. I had no idea what to say or do. I was so shocked.

"That's all."

Wait, what?

Before I could respond, she was swaying away, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor and her skirt waving me goodbye.

What the hell? Who did she think she was? I know I didn't look like her, and, when it came to French, I certainly couldn't talk like her. But what did I even do to deserve being treated like scum? We had an educational obligation to each other. I wasn't going to let this girl stop me from graduating just because she had an attitude problem.

I charged out of the room determined to confront her.

She must have seriously booked it out of the building because I didn't see her as I angrily flew down the hall. When I burst outside, I glared against the intense sunlight and struggled to look into the sea of students that flowed from every building as classes transitioned. I took a few steps forward, craning my head as high as possible.

The second I saw the red hair, my feet were running before I could confirm it was her.

She was pretty far ahead of me, and the masses of people really weren't helping me in my pursuit. I trudged as patiently as I could behind trio of freshman that had decided to take up the entire sidewalk, keeping my eyes on Miranda as she moved down the sidewalk like it was a catwalk. Her hair bounced with every step; that didn't happen when you just shuffled about like me.

It was in that moment I realized exactly how creepy this was. I was following a young woman down the street. But I wasn't doing it on purpose. Well, yes, I made the choice to follow her, but it was for the sake of French. I certainly thought she was beautiful, but I wasn't trying to talk with her to peruse anything outside of what was expected for our professional education. That's why I was upset. I had a right to ask how she expected we get this project done. Right?

When the figure turned down a different sidewalk into a group of buildings, I found myself making an internal promise.

_You will not be creepy. You will be polite but firm. You both need a decent grade. You will be a good French partner and not a creepy weird bisexual that stares and drools._

The surrounding buildings were covered with a reflective glass that really made it hard to focus, but the glass design was interesting. I probably would have enjoyed it more if I wasn't practically jogging to reach my goal. My breathing turned ragged, and I could hear Lily's voice telling me I needed to get out of the lab and exercise more.

I spotted Miranda opening one of the doors and heading inside a few yards away from me. The door closed a few moments before I reached it. When I finally reached it, I grabbed the handle, took a deep gasp of air, and threw it open.

The hallway was completely empty. No one in sight. I couldn't even hear the clicking of her heels. I took a few steps forward to where the hall spilt into three directions, and neither direction seemed to give any clue to where she could have gone. I noticed art lined the walls, and I had walked past a sculpture of a wildcat, our school's mascot, near the door. A directory hung on the wall next to me and informed me that I could declare a major in Arts just down the hall if I desired.

So I was in the Arts building. And I had lost Miranda. I felt sticky and gross from the heat outside from the final gasps of summer, and it didn't help I had picked out a dark purple shirt for the day. I just stared at the directory on the wall and cursed it for not telling me where to do.

"God damnit!"

"Can I help you?"

My head whipped around at the question and found a young man behind me, coming from one of the side hallways with a satchel strapped across his body. He must have been an art student because his whole outfit screamed in color like a modern painting. His shorts were a brilliant dark pink. What was that called? Salmon? The shirt that went with it was a pastel green button down, and I tried not to smirk at the polka-dotted bow tie that accompanied it. His Oxford shoes, thick, rectangular glasses, and gelled hair added the finishing touches. It looked like he had been heading towards the lobby to leave the building.

"Yeah, hi," I stumbled, approaching him, "did you see a girl with red hair walk through here?"

He cocked his head to the side. I must have sounded creepy. Bad, Sachs.

"Her name is Miranda. I'm trying to find her."

"Why?"

"What?" I jumped, a little taken aback at this stranger's question.

"Why do you want to find her?" he spoke slowly, taking care to pronounce each syllable. I'm not sure if he thought I was an idiot or if he just spoke in that airy way all the time.

"Oh, well, she um," I stammered before remembering my mission and summoning my courage, "I need to talk to her. She keeps avoiding me."

The young man paused for a moment before smoothly declaring, "Miranda is a fashion prophet."

"Excuse me?" Who the hell was this guy?

"She is majoring in Art Theory to pursue a career in fashion," his slow voice continued, as if it made perfect sense.

"Right. Fashion. Anyway, I—"

"Fashion. Clearly something you don't know much about," he said as he adjusted his glasses and let his eyes pass judgment over my outfit, "So I ask again, why are you trying to find her?"

I was about to defend myself against this pretentious loser when I processed what he had said. My journalist instinct suddenly kicked in and a desperate curiosity started to grow inside of me as I thought about this information about Miranda.

Miranda wanted a career in fashion? How did that give her the right to treat me like crap? I was torn trying to understand how this girl with such deep, intellectual eyes could be such a jerk.

"Why not just go to a school with a fashion program?" I asked eagerly, trying to figure out this puzzle of a girl.

"None of your business," he said coolly with a growing smirk.

"You're enjoying this," I said slowly, my eyes narrowing in the process.

"I'm sorry. Not everyone comes in here guns blazing to ask about _the_ Miranda," he apologized with appeared to be some sincerity, seemingly just as curious about my connection to Miranda as I was about his.

"_The_ Miranda?"

"She gets the best grades in the department and has taken over 20 credits per semester. She's here for the winter and summer sessions. She's pretty well known around the Arts buildings."

"Wow," I breathed, gripping the handles of my book bag that slung across my shoulders. I figured she was smart, but that's just ridiculous.

"She's already gotten published in some fashion magazines too. That girl is going places."

That peaked my interest immediately. Even I had sent my work in to a few publications and hadn't heard anything back. It's hard to do, especially still as a student, no matter your major or interests.

"Andy," I said, extending my hand forward.

"Nigel," was his answer, and his hand met mine. Now that we were closer to each other, I could smell cologne rolling off of him in waves. Kinda smelled like lemons. It wasn't that bad really, but it fit his eccentric appearance.

"Are you her friend?"

"If you could even call it that," Nigel shrugged, placing his hands on his hips, "Miranda is very private. We're more like studio partners that share similar views and a lot of time together."

"Yeah, I heard art students spent a lot of time in studio," I replied, thinking about how often Lily rejoiced that her Art History major didn't force her to spend hours locked up a in room sketching things like regular art students.

"We do indeed."

I awkwardly looked from Nigel to the intersection of hallways before I asked, "Is that where she is now?"

"Maybe. What do you need to see her for?" This time his question lacked the bite of a cocky fashionista and seemed to express his genuine curiosity. I guess if he was the closest thing Miranda had to a friend, it made sense.

"We're supposed to be working on a French assignment together."

After a pause, he nodded, running a hand through his hair.

"Take a right and go down the stairs. It's the double doors at the end of the hall on the third floor."

"Thanks," I sighed with relief and produced a big smile before I turned and proceeded down the hall.

"Andy."

I turned back and watched Nigel tilt his head in contemplation. When he spoke again, it was in that same methodical, steady voice.

"Miranda doesn't expect anything from anyone that she doesn't expect of herself."

I slowly nodded, and he bowed his head before turning to walk out the door. I followed his directions and thought about what he had said. It was obvious Miranda had high expectations if she had rejected me as a partner right away. But I knew if she gave me a change, I could do it. I guess it fit with her personality, according to Nigel. If she really was such a hard worker, a student like her would probably scream if they had to work with the senior that could barely say ten words in French. As I trudged up the stairs, I thought about the conversation we had our first day in class. I had basically told her I was no good with the language and asked her to dumb it down for me.

Apparently, to top it all off, I was a walking fashion disaster, and she was some kind of fashion queen.

I reached the end of the hallway to find two doors propped open, and I entered a large room. It was almost like a warehouse stuffed with tables and stools. You could already see where some students had claimed certain areas with little shelves decorating the top of the tables, containing supplies like pencils and brushes. I couldn't believe it. It was only the end of the first week of classes and some tables had canvases sprinkled with colors on top of them. Beginnings of sculptures. Sketches upon sketches. The smell of fresh-cut wood was welcoming despite the amount of work and carpentry it probably required for the art student using it. There had to have been at least ten people in there already as I stepped into the space, some with headphones, working diligently on whatever was before them on their tables. One guy had his face buried in his arms, taking nap on the table from where he sat beside it on a stool.

So this was studio. Where art students went to live for four years.

I walked down a row of tables already feeling a little lost in a maze when I turned a corner to find Miranda sitting in a stool by a table. Her hair was tucked behind her ear and she moved a pencil rapidly across a page before her. The expression on her face was just as intense as it usually was, but there was something about her posture that was more relaxed.

I walked closer, and just as I was wondering what to say, her eyes flicked towards me.

"Hi," I said too cheerfully in a panic.

Fucking brilliant.

"Are you lost?" she drawled, not looking up from her work.

"No, I wanted to talk to you."

"Life is full of disappointments."

I signed and continued forward despite her resistance. "We're supposed to work together on a lot of homework assignments this semester."

She continued concentrating her attention on the book before her, not even glancing my way as I spoke.

"I know I'm not as skilled as you are, and I've never taken a course before so—"

"Details of your incompetence do not interest me," she sneered, each word stinging without her so much as looking at me.

That was the last straw. I was done being ignored.

"You need me just as much as I need you," I practically growled, slamming my fist on the table between us, "Both of our grades depend on us working together, whether you like it or not. I'm not here to take down your illustrious academic career. I'll carry my weight. Now carry yours," I spat, sitting down at a stool across the table from Miranda.

The young woman's eyebrows rose marginally, not out of fear or anger, but more or less with what appeared to be pleasant surprise. My reaction had even surprised me; I wasn't usually a confrontational person. Her long pause made me question ever walking in the building.

At long last, she replied calmly, "You followed me here."

"You wouldn't even look at me."

"I wonder why," she murmured with mock innocence, her eyes taking a survey of my outfit, juts as Nigel had.

"You know, I'm getting really tired of everyone making fun of my clothes."

"Then change," she replied nonchalantly, facing and continuing her drawing.

"I'm the editor of a student newspaper, not _Vogue_."

Her frantic pencil paused in its journey. I followed her eyes with my own, thinking they would turn to me, but they remained focused sharply on the drawing before her. And yet her pencil still did not move. Was it something I said?

"I've already completed half of the assignment due next Thursday," she replied with elegant deliberateness, tilting her head to admire her sketch at a different angle, "Since you're so keen on doing it together, you may continue with it here while I attend to other work."

Wow. It worked.

She set the pencil down beside her sketchbook so sharply I thought it would break in half before she turned her dark stare upon me and said, "Just don't test my patience."

All I could do was nod. What other choice did I have? I got what I wanted. Before I knew what to do with myself, she was reaching into her bag and producing a piece of notebook paper with a series of answers written across the lines. They corresponded with a worksheet we got days ago. She had even done the second half, the harder of the questions. Her handwriting was a scrawled cursive, and it was in that other language I knew little about, but I knew I could manage. I muttered a 'thank you' before sliding my own bag off my shoulders and on to the floor.

I glanced at my watch and realized I had a solid two hours before my next class. Usually, after French, I had taken to retreating to the lab in an attempt to write…or nap. I grabbed a pen from my bag along with my own paper and the question set, and dove in with a contented smile.

It took a few tries with the textbook and using Miranda's answers, but I managed to work my way slowly through my half of the work. I occasionally glanced up to see what my companion was up to, and it looked like she had silently moved on to another page in her book, to another drawing. We were alone and quiet together. It wasn't the best situation, and part of me was really hoping next time we could go through the whole assignment together, but there I was, happily doing schoolwork, in French. Crazy, right?

And then the worst happened. The silence began to get to me. And I grew restless.

Should I have said thank you more? What do you say to that? Who is this girl? I would eventually have to ask her questions about the material in the future. What was she drawing?

So I said the first thing that popped in my head.

"I liked your skirt the other day."

I was such an idiot. So much for not sounding creepy. I kept my head down and stared at the paper, praying she would just ignore me.

An almost inaudible sigh came from across the table before I heard, "You'll have to be more precise."

"It was on the first day of class. It was this blue-ish color," I smirked, excited I was getting a response, a normal conversational response at that.

"Blue…ish," Miranda hissed, raising an eyebrow but keeping her eyes glued to her work.

"Yeah?"

"Primarily, that skirt was cerulean."

"Oh sorry. I'm not good with this stuff," I laughed nervously, gesturing to the room and the visual pieces that spread across the tables.

"This stuff?" she growled, her glare suddenly upon me, "I see. You think you're better than all this artsy fashion _stuff_."

I thought I was going to die.

"Miranda, I-"

"No, no, it's quite apparent. You think you're above it all. You take your intellect seriously, therefore, when you look into your closet to prepare for the day, you select a wrinkled, purple Northwestern t-shirt to show exactly how much you don't care about physical appearances. What you don't know is that isn't just any purple. It's tyrian purple, the original royal purple. Tyrian dye was produced from sea snails and used in clothing as early as 1500 BC. In comparison to most dyes for that time period, when most colors faded and died away with use, tyrian purple brightened and looked all the more glorious with repeated wear. It literally cost its weight in silver, and in some cases, gold. It became the embodiment of wealth and status; only royalty could possess those fabrics. Purple was power," she spoke so that each word stung. The anger that begun her rant was gone, and now she simply looked at me as if I was a child.

"Therefore, Andrea, what you fail to realize is the fact you're donning an amassed cultural history of superiority and grandeur that our prestigious university has chosen to embolden with its name. You think you're too serious and intellectual for this fashion _stuff_. But it's a representation of the knowledge and power you hope to attain."

Silence descended on our table as she sat there, a blizzard raging in her irises, her penetrating gaze unwavering from mine. A challenge. The pen was frozen in her grasp.

I found myself stuck somewhere between fear and immense awe. That was the most she had ever said to me at once.

"I get it," I replied softly, trying to keep my voice from shaking, "You're an artist. This is important to you. Fashion is important to you. I'm not trying to belittle your work, Miranda. I want us to both do well in this class so you can go on to talk about fashion and art and all of it in French and so I can graduate."

She glanced down to drill her gaze into the table.

"And I really did like your skirt. I just don't have the same words you do to describe why I do. I want to try and understand," I explained, not realizing how true my words were until I was saying them. She made it sound so magnificent. I wanted to learn.

She met my eyes again and held them for a moment. In the corner of my eye, I saw her knuckles grow white from gripping her pencil. But, gosh, those eyes demanded my attention.

The thin line of her frown broke, and I heard her say, "Ombré."

"Huh?"

"The cerulean skirt I wore last Monday. It fades from a darker value of a color to a lighter one. That technique is called ombré," she enlightened, her voice lacking its previous venom, 'The word comes from the French, a form of the word _shade_."

Suddenly, it all fit together. There she was, looking at me, explaining this thing that was beautiful to her. This thing that, when she thought I had insulted it, she had viciously defended with a fierce and deep knowledge. Then, I had earned some ounce of trust for her to show me this beautiful thing, and it made her all the more beautiful.

"It looked fantastic on you," I murmured with a smile I couldn't control.

If her eyes were ice, I thought I might have seen them melt as she looked at me from across that art table. I didn't dare think she smiled. But I thought I saw the hint of a smirk as she turned back to give her attention to the sketchbook before her.

Maybe I didn't screw it up completely after all.

* * *

A/N: So I'm trying to find ways to insert bits of the movie and characters we love into a college setting. Please let me know what you think. I do have the next chapter or so figured out, so there should be another update soon. XO


	3. Q&A

"Does this outfit look okay?"

"I'm sorry, what?" Lily questioned, looking up from her position on the couch, "Did you just ask me about your clothes?"

I was standing in the walkway at the threshold of our living room. I had tried digging into the depths of my closet and had emerged with a collared shirt that seemed a bit nicer than what I usually wore, but I was totally out of my element.

"Um, yes."

"Andrea Sachs, are you trying to impress someone?" she gasped scandalously, gawking at me as I leaned against the wall.

"Yes. No. Maybe. Whatever."

"Who is it?" she interrogated, clenching her morning cup of coffee with excitement like she was waiting for a juicy secret at a sleepover. I rolled my eyes.

"This girl in my French class, the one that was supposed to be my partner and avoiding me?" I explained, running my hand through my hair that was still damp from my shower, "I finally got her to work with me on our assignments. Apparently she's some kind of art student that's really into fashion."

"Right." Lily was skeptical.

"She kept giving me a hard time, so I wanted to at least try."

"Right."

I stared at my roommate before I whined in defeat, "She's really pretty."

"Bingo! What's her name?"

"Miranda."

"Wait, Miranda?" she let the name mull over for a moment while she took a sip of her drink, "Does her last name start with a P?"

"Yeah, something like that. She has red hair. Shorter than me. Do you know her?"

"She got some kind of arts scholarship last year. Art History students could apply for it too, so I did. When they announced her credentials, it was insane."

"It seems like she's a hard-worker," I nodded, remembering how intensely she had spoke about the shirt I had worn. I suddenly felt a little warm.

"You're so in over your head."

"Tell me about it," I sighed.

Lily shook her head and finally ran her eyes down my outfit with a frown.

"Do you at least own a pair of skinny jeans?"

* * *

"You're late."

I felt my eyes grow wide with panic. I already messed up, and I hadn't even sat down yet.

I was trying to find the words to apologize as I checked my watch.

Wait a second.

"I'm like five minutes early," I said slowly, frowning slightly as I looked up at Miranda, who was sitting at a table in the library, right where we had agreed to meet.

It was so slight, I almost didn't see it. But the corner of her lip hinted upwards, and her eyes were warmer than their usual icy blue.

"That was a joke," I said, the wonder and amazement in my voice perfectly obvious.

"Punctuality is never a joke," she said, her voice like a breeze, lacking any seriousness to make me think anything to the contrary. Miranda was actually capable of being funny.

"I'll try to do better next time," I smirked, taking the chair across from her. I threw my bag unceremoniously to the ground without a second glance. I was much too preoccupied trying to understand this more casual side of the diva I had been dealing with for days.

"Commençons," she stated, reaching for her textbook.

That was enough to break me out of my stupor. "Uh, what?"

I received a pointed look before she translated slowly, "Let us start."

Oh yeah. I was there to do work, not stare at her. But I was just so curious as to who this girl was.

"If you can speak almost fluently, how are you only in French 101?"

Her eyes glanced up at me as she leafed through the textbook to the chapter we were working on. I noticed she did that a lot. It was like she would look at me as if to decide to answer my questions or not.

"My previous semesters have included Italian, Spanish, and German," she explained in her airy voice, as if it was a small accomplishment, "There was also a summer seminar on Japanese. Therefore, I lacked the time to pursue French academically, though I have done some independent study."

"You taught yourself French?" I was floored.

"Yes."

"Wow. That's incredible."

One eyebrow carefully twitched as if to suggest she was perfectly aware that she was, in fact, incredible.

"How did you do it?"

"You ask a lot of questions," she countered quickly, retrieving her notebook from her bag. It lacked bite. I smiled.

"I'm a curious person. Plus, we're gonna be stuck together for the rest of the semester. I feel like we should get to know each other more," I replied cheerfully, hoping she might feel the same way about at least being on a friendly level. I tried to make it seem like a nonchalant comment though, avoiding her eyes and reaching down the floor to retrieve my book from my bag. I could feel her gaze on me.

"I went to an art program in Paris for a summer in high school," she offered softly.

I placed my book on the table and asked, "Why didn't you just try to test out of the class and get credit anyway?"

"I want to be thorough to insure I have perfectly mastered the language. I'm sure someone like you can understand that even the smallest mistake in communication can be detrimental," she said with a stern tone, and I wasn't sure if she was referring to my position as an editor of a newspaper or my role as the French class idiot.

My curiosity just grew with her answer.

"Why do you want to learn so many languages?"

I jumped when she sharply sighed, "Why are you wasting my time?"

I had gotten too comfortable. I immediately looked down at the book before me and started quickly turning to the chapter while muttering, "Sorry."

I heard another sigh. The voice that followed sounded like that of a frustrated teacher.

"The editor in chief of say, _Vogue_, travels all over the world for various fashion weeks and must meet with designers of different nationalities."

"Oh." It made sense. "And that's what you want to do?"

"Yes, more or less," she concluded with the click of a pen.

"Then we should get to work before you kill me," I said sheepishly, a little embarrassed I had asked so many questions. But she hadn't yelled at me or stormed out, so I guess that was a good sign.

"Nonsense," she replied in that cool, evilly calm demeanor that made me shiver, "I can't kill you. I might stain my clothes."

Talk about an emotional roller coaster. But part of me didn't mind she had me on my toes. It was the strangest sensation. I had made it this far; what was the worst that could happen? I felt a smile work its way to my face before I could stop it.

"Another joke. Careful. I might actually think you have a sense of humor," I warned, my eyes growing wide in mock concern.

Miranda grinned. It was simultaneously wicked and completely adorable, the ultimate paradox. The fact her hair was pulled back made her eyes, already so expressive, the main focal point every time I looked up at her. Her make-up wasn't aggressive or too over the top, but it still just made it impossible to look away. Her lips were a light pink that complimented her very fair complexion. She wore long earrings that drew my perusal down to her neck and collarbone…

That's when I stopped myself and quickly dived into the book in front of me.

After about half an hour, I decided I only liked French when it was coming out of Miranda's mouth. It sounded perfect, musical, and seductive. When I tried to say something, it sounded like I was choking and dying.

I was surprised though by how patient Miranda was. Sure, I got my fair share of sighs and eye rolls, but she tried, and she attempted to explain things when I got stuck. Once I had improved, she began quizzing me by producing a sentence in French that I would have to translate. I concentrated on the wall to my left with sign explaining library procedures. I found I couldn't focus if I looked at Miranda while she spoke.

"Louis aime à jouer aux échecs."

"Louis likes to play chess."

Needless to say, the expressions sounded really lame when I gave the English version.

"Claire déteste nettoyer sa chambre."

"Claire hates to clean her room." I bet Miranda's room was spotless.

"Andrea aime poser des questions."

"Andrea likes to ask questions," I translated, my eyes flicking towards the devilish woman and playfully narrowing in mock annoyance. Her eyes were glittering.

I liked the way she said my name like it was foreign too.

"You can call me Andy," I heard myself suggesting, part of me feeling like, if we were to be friends, this was the name she would call me.

"No," she said simply, and I wasn't sure what it meant.

"Well, should I call you Miriam?"

"No." Her voice was more absolute and commanding.

I bit the inside of my mouth as I wondered why she was persistent on using my real name.

"I like Andy better."

"Andrea is a strong, beautiful name. You should use it more often," was the matter-of-fact response I received. She didn't even look up from her book.

I could barley mutter a "merci" before I turned back to the wall, seemingly ready my French lesson to continue but desperately trying to hide the heat I could feel rising to my cheeks.

* * *

4:30.

I read two more sentences before I looked at the tiny clock in the corner.

4:31.

I got through another line or so of text, and checked again.

4:31.

The cursor blinked. And blinked. And blinked. I checked again.

4:32.

Fuck.

"Andy, you're shaking the table," Lily sighed next to me from her usually computer in the lab.

"Sorry," I mumbled, trying to focus again on the article in front of me that I was supposed to be editing.

4:33.

"Andy."

My head whipped around at the annoyance in my best friend's voice.

"You're still doing it."

"Crap, crap, sorry." I deliberately rolled my chair a foot back from the table.

"You wanna tell me what the hell is going on?"

"I'm leaving soon. I just have a lot of energy."

"Mhm. Does this have anything to do with the fact you asked to borrow my jacket today?" Lily crossed her arms and glared at me.

I suddenly felt conscious. "Does it look okay on me?"

"Of course it does, it's an awesome jacket," her voiced oozed with cocky attitude. She did have a pretty good taste in clothes.

"Thanks. I'm just nervous. And excited. Miranda and I worked for like over an hour together yesterday, and then she told me to meet her today. What does that mean?"

"That you really suck at French."

"We didn't just talk about French," I pouted, trying to convince Lily and myself that maybe Miranda could possibly want to interact with me outside of our shared educational bond. The girl next to me just raised her eyebrows. She wanted proof.

I shrugged and said with a sheepish grin, "She likes my name?"

"You're pathetic."

"I know, I know."

I turned back to the computer in defeat.

4:40.

I jumped up and started gathering my things.

"I'll probably be home later," I noted, giving Lily a glance.

"Cool. I might invite Doug over for some drinks. Maybe we can go out later," she replied. It was our typical Friday night ritual.

"Sounds good," I called out over my shoulder as I practically dived out the door.

I was meeting her in the studio, and I had to make to the art building before the doors locked at five. It was a weird protocol, but after five, only art students had ID swipe access to get into the building. I hadn't exactly gotten Miranda's phone number, so I was going to be locked out if I didn't get there. Plus, I wanted to be ten minutes early just to prove I didn't think punctuality was a joke. I chuckled. It was weird to think I had an inside joke with Miranda.

At 4:48, I was entering the glass doors of the arts building and heading to the stairwell, fondly recalling my encounter with Nigel and wondering if I would see him again. I wanted to observe him and Miranda together to see how she acted around people she already knew.

My train of thought was interrupted when I entered the studio and approached Miranda's table. A girl with short black hair was raising her voice, clearly looking displeased. When I saw the red waves, I realized she was yelling at Miranda.

"You must think you're hot shit, embarrassing me like that in class today."

"I have no idea what you could possibly mean," came the indifferent tone I had grown used to.

"Are you such a frigid bitch all the time that you don't remember when you insult someone in front of a whole group of people?" the other girl snarled, leaning in across the table to get in Miranda's face. I really didn't like it.

"The professor asked us to criticize each other's work. You presented your piece to the class, and he specifically called on me to assess it. And I did," Miranda slowly reasoned, adding a small sting at the end of her explanation.

"Just stay out of my fucking way," the stranger threatened before leaving Miranda, heading right towards me.

I snapped.

I took out my phone out of my pocket and quickly selected the microphone recording option like I had done a million times before. I speedily stepped into the exiting girl's path.

"Excuse me, what's your name?"

"Why?" She looked me up and down like I was crazy. I probably was.

"I'm interviewing for a story in the _Daily NU_," I replied, holding up the device recording our conversation. My tone was perfectly serious.

"Oh. Jacqueline Follet," she said cheerfully into the phone, "What are you interviewing about?"

"What is it like to be such a complete and total asshole? Is that tiring for you or does it come naturally?"

Her mouth dropped.

It took her a moment, but once she got over the shock, she was scoffing, "Fuck off."

I glared at her back as she walked away. When I turned back around, Miranda's eyes were wide. She was actually capable of being surprised. I was pretty surprised at myself.

I looked down to put my phone back in my pocket and cleared my throat.

"Sorry. She was bothering me."

"The feeling is mutual," she murmured, her eyes not leaving me as I walked up to the table.

"So, what exactly did you say about her work?" I casually asked, crossing my arms and leaning against the flat workspace.

"I said something to the degree that her art piece looked like a project Picasso would have done," she paused to inspect her nails, "If he was blind."

I smiled. I hadn't expected anything less.

"Did the professor agree?"

"Of course. The thing was atrocious. And her attempt at cubic design did validate my Picasso comment to some extent. I was right," she asserted, gracefully closing her sketchbook and tossing her hair over her shoulder. When she looked at me again, I couldn't help but catch my breath. Her golden, fiery locks surrounded her face, and her eyes beamed with her usual confidence.

"I'm starting to learn you're always right."

"Not _always_," she stated, heavily implying that she often found herself to be right almost all the time.

"Oh, really?" I smirked mirthfully, and she answered with teasingly raised eyebrows.

I decided I would play the game. "What's something you were wrong about recently?"

The good-humor in her gaze melted into something more serious.

"You are not what I anticipated," she answered slowly, her head tilting like I once saw her do when she inspected a drawing in her sketchbook. When her eyes flickered down my body before fully engaging my own gaze, I didn't feel the annoyance that usually came when she was judging my outfit. I quivered because I felt bare; she was looking at me, not my clothes.

"Is that good or bad?" I asked hesitantly, not sure if I wanted know the answer.

"Yet to be determined," came her methodical voice in a tone so soft I almost didn't hear it, and her expression remained quizzical.

I realized then the simple truth was that I intrigued her as much as she intrigued me.

Before I could rationally analyze my actions or wonder about the consequences, I found myself saying, "You know, we got really ahead on our assignment for this week when we studied yesterday. And, knowing you, you probably haven't left this studio anytime recently. Wanna get dinner?"

She just stared at me.

Congratulations, Sachs. Let's see you get yourself outta this one.

"Dinner. Food. It's important for life, or so I heard," I muttered, trying to seem more like a concerned acquaintance than awkwardly asking for something that was similar to a date.

She continued to stare at me, and I jokingly added, "Please tell you weren't planning on spending your Friday night in here."

"And I assume you're a socialite on the weekends, hm?" she countered, easily guessing that I was probably the biggest homebody known to mankind.

"No. I just figured you would be."

She snorted.

"You don't dress up in fancy outfits and go partying?" I grinned, fairly positive that Miss Fashion Queen was too wrapped up in her schoolwork to really go out.

"If by partying you're referring to overly intoxicated man-children spilling beverages on said fancy outfits while rudely commenting on my figure, then, no, I do not partake in partying," Miranda summarized, her mouth carefully pronouncing each syllable to add a sophisticated, cutting tone to her explanation. I tried hard not to think about how her lips moved when she talked.

"Exactly. So dinner with me seems pretty harmless in comparison for what you could be doing on a Friday night." Yup. Totally harmless. I'm completely innocent. Not thinking about your lips at all. Purely a friendly offer here.

Whether my intentions were friendly or the result of some growing romantic interest, I had to admit, my logic was good. Miranda tilted her head and proceeded to stare at me. After a moment, she reached down and grabbed her satchel, slinging it across her shoulder in surrender.

Woah.

"You're rather annoying," she mused, not letting any malice slip into her voice as she walked to my side.

"I prefer the terms _investigative_ and _influential_," I teased, beginning our journey out the large doors and into the hallway. She could call me annoying. She could call me whatever she wanted. I had somehow convinced her to go to dinner with me. I had won some kind of life challenge.

As if hearing my mental declaration, she reasserted, "But predominately annoying."

I laughed and tried to explain, "I'm trying this thing where I'm being more spontaneous."

"Is that why you've suddenly added earth tones and pieces besides t-shirts to your wardrobe?"

Busted.

"Uh, no," I tried to brush it off, as if I hadn't been borrowing Lily's clothes for the past two days.

"Or perhaps why you're wearing eyeliner, even if it is minimal?"

"Alright, alright, you caught me," I admitted with a shy smile, throwing my hands in the air, "I was getting tired of you and Nigel joking me about my clothes."

"You've met Nigel?" she questioned, and I felt an ounce of joy at the hint of surprise her voice contained.

"He's the one that helped me find you in the studio last week," I recounted, opening the door that lead to the outside world, holding it open for the woman that was a step behind.

"I should have known he was your partner in crime," she said with narrowed eyes as she stepped through the doorway, "I found it odd he asked about my French class the following day," she paused as we reached the road, "Where are we going?"

"I don't know. Spontaneous, remember? Come on, let's go this way. We'll run into a few places," I decided cheerfully, ignoring her skeptical glances. I figured my act first, ask questions later mentality had be working so far. It's what led me to the art building that first time anyway.

"So, did you tell Nigel about me?" I asked jokingly.

"Quite. I said you were very 'investigative' and 'influential.,'" she wittily replied, the evil smirk returning.

"I can be pretty annoying," I admitted, looking at the ground, knowing my journalistic approach and my rich curiosity about her produced an intense combination.

I thought I could feel her eyes on me when she said, "Your innocent curiosity is oddly refreshing at times."

"'Andrea likes to ask questions,'" I recalled from yesterday's study session, not sure how to handle her comment

"So it would seem."

I honestly didn't know why she made me want to ask so many questions, or why I was so curious about her. She was a special anomaly that drew my attention the second I saw her. It made me want to ask everything even if I had to struggle to do it in French.

Then I remember perhaps the most important question of all.

"What cheese do you like?"

"Excuse me?" Miranda's eyebrow arched, and it took me a second to remember the conversation that led up to the cheese had been a private one in my head.

"On the very first day of class, you said you liked some cheeses. I was in the middle of looking through the textbook trying to figure out how the hell to ask you what kinds you like before Bisset started talking."

"And knowing this information is critical because..." she trailed off, the corners of her mouth twitching with amusement.

I thought about the best way to explain my need to know before I settled on, "Because it's something I don't know about you."

"There's a great deal you do not know about me," she responded coyly. Almost flirtatiously. I swallowed and rubbed my hands on my jeans. I was starting to sweat.

"That's why I'm trying to figure it out, one cheese at a time."

We walked a few paces in silence before she answered, "I particularly enjoy bleu."

A knot emerged between my eyebrows. "That's usually like everyone's least favorite," I immediately added, "What's your favorite color?"

"All colors are necessary," came her response in that smooth, contemplative tone that always made Miranda seem so authoritative.

"You don't like one more than the others?" I asked in shock, and when she didn't reply, I took the prior answer as the final one.

"Okay. What about movies? I bet you like _Pretty in Pink_."

"Shouldn't you leave me with some secrets? I'm supposed to be mysterious," she calmly stated, sophisticatedly tilting her chin and looking at me through her eyelashes.

"You're not so mysterious," I declared, smiling at the Miranda that stood before in contrast to the mysterious Girl in Blue I sat next to in class. This one was so much more understandable, even if she was still full of surprises.

"Oh really. Then enlighten me, if you're such an expert. What am I?"

You just had to open your big mouth, Andy.

I slipped my hands in my pockets. I could lie. I could make a joke about how she was a French genius or something. It didn't feel right though. Miranda certainly avoided topics I brought up, and she could be severe in judgment, but she was never dishonest as far as I could tell.

"A little intimidating," I began slowly, "But I think you do that on purpose. You don't want to waste your time with someone who can't stick around. You're hardworking and passionate, that much is obvious. You're critical of other's work because you expect the same of them as you do yourself. And while you're harsh, I think you're always honest. Super smart. Really pretty. A tad sarcastic. It's still a work in progress," I finished, taking a breath, and sneaking a glance at the younger girl. She was tilting her head in observation again.

"The real question is, why you're trying to figure it all out," she said, as if it was a question with a simple answer. I struggled to think of one that made sense.

"Why do you like fashion so much? I'm sure you could rant about it for hours. A short version, please," I asked, hoping she could help answer her own question.

Miranda's eyes looked towards the horizon before us lined with buildings. The sky was starting to deepen and darken as night began seeping into it.

"It's perhaps the only art form that we embody in our daily lives. It's more than just clothes; it's selecting an identity. It's beautiful," she whispered, and I wondered how people like Jacqueline could not see the passion that flowed through this unique woman.

"I don't really know how or why, but that's kind of how I feel about getting to know you," I explained, a nervous hand running through my hair, "We're surrounded by people everyday. They're like these empty, faceless figures in the backdrop of our minds, you know? What does it mean when one of the many steps forward and you can actually see them? What makes them different?"

What made Miranda different?

I stared at her and tried to gauge her reaction. Did she understand what I meant?

"You are very odd," was the much-awaited response, her voice blunt.

"Thanks," I muttered sarcastically, already planning on ways I could try to disappear from embarrassment. What the hell was I thinking?

"You're going to make an excellent journalist."

"It's weird to hear you say a compliment," I joked, attempting to change the topic.

"You read people well. You pursue the unordinary. You have a way with words that's rather," she trailed off, appearing to search for the right word. I held my breath.

"Rather…romantic," she mused, "You say what you're thinking. I don't often meet people that are so open and honest."

"I don't know what to say." It was the truth. What was I supposed to say when a girl like her was claiming I was somehow special?

"Hm. You, quiet? Now that is very surprising," she practically purred, and I practically died. I spent the remainder of our walk trying not to trip over my own feet and to desperately not to think about that devilish smile she now had glued to her face.

Nothing terribly exciting happened as we continued to walk, and we soon reached a little café that I had been to before. She ordered a salad, and I had a grilled cheese. We ate in relative silence, which I would break on occasion to ask a random question that popped into my head. It was peaceful. I felt as though, when we entered, we had been almost strangers. Once we left, and I checked my watch, I discovered two hours had just serenely glided away like waves. When she said goodbye to return to her dorm, I smiled because it wasn't scary or traumatic. The night reminded me she was human after all, and that just made her more beautiful. She was someone I was beginning to actually know.

I remember walking home feeling like I was in a dream.

* * *

A/N: I feel like I should say now that I know zero French and the power of the Internet is guiding me. As always, please review and let me know what you think. Hopefully we'll be seeing some more familiar faces soon, like Emily. In case anyone was wondering, I based Miranda's hair color off of her daughters' from the movie. But yes…please give your opinion because it influences this story a lot. Thank you for reading!


	4. French Art and French Fries

The clash of metal. Sparks flew in every direction. The glistening blade of my sword swung high over my head, inevitably colliding with its target, sending them backwards. I charged forward, following my enemy who balanced hazardously on a ledge that led to a bottomless pit. I was assured of my victory.

Suddenly, in a great feat of power, the figure leaped into the air, and, before I could muster a defense, it landed behind me. A beam of light shot out of a mechanical device on my enemy's arm, and I was plummeting into the abyss.

I dropped the game controller in defeat.

"That's the third damn time I've lost in a row." I should have known a swordsman would lose against a futuristic space bounty hunter.

"Sucks to suck," Doug said casually, pressing another button to return to one of the menu screens, "You sure you don't wanna give it a shot, Lily?"

"Nope. I'm fine watching you kick Andy's ass," the snickering woman replied from her armchair in the corner of Doug's apartment.

"Not anymore. I'm done," I declared, standing up, holding my hands up in defeat.

"Aw, come on, don't be a sore loser," the man on the couch pouted.

"I'm not, I just gotta get going soon," I replied with a shrug and an apologetic grin. I didn't want the poor guy to think I would never play with him again if he kept winning.

"Where do you possibly have to be on a Saturday afternoon," he sassily questioned. Typical Doug.

"The Mary and Leigh Block Museum of Art," I retorted just as pretentiously, placing my hands on my hips.

"Why are you going to the university's museum?" Lily asked, knowing full well I probably would never venture there on my own.

"French project," I tried to say as casually as possible. Needless to say I was excited and anxious to see Miranda. Our assignment was to go to the museum and write about one of the pieces in French. I guess the professor was trying to encourage some exploration of our school's resources. I was just pumped to see Miranda more outside of the studio or the library.

"Wow. Cool," Doung responded dryly, clearly not thinking the idea was as stimulating as I did.

"I'll head out with you. I need to work on one of my articles so my editor doesn't get all pissy at the staff meeting on Tuesday," Lily complained, pointedly rolling her eyes at me. Doug laughed.

"Arts section is always trouble," I announced overdramatically, mock glaring at my best friend as she walked with me towards the door.

"See ya later!" my companion called over her shoulder while I waved.

"Bye, ladies!"

We weren't more than a flight down the stairs of Doug's apartment building when Lily asked, "So, speaking of artsy people always being trouble, why did Miranda wanna meet you today? I didn't even know the museum as even opened on Saturdays."

"It's closed on Mondays, I think," I replied with a frown, "She kind of glared at me and just told me to meet her there today."

"You said she got weird over art and stuff."

"But we were finally getting along, I don't know. Maybe she doesn't like talking to me in front of people in class," I sighed before optimistically adding, "Anyway, I guess it's nice we're doing it way before our assignment is due on Thursday."

It had been about a week since we had our dinner together. She had started speaking to me a little more openly in class and was patient with my struggles in the French language. We had even met twice in the studio and studied in-between her other, more artistic endeavors.

"I'm sure you don't mind getting more alone time with her either."

"This crush is getting out of hand," I sighed, remembering waking up in a hot sweat this morning from a rather heated dream involving my French partner.

"Maybe you should just go for it," Lily declared, pushing open the door and walking outside.

"Go for it how?"

"Just make it happen," she said in her typical, loud voice. Lily was the kind of person that went out and made things happen. This advice made sense for her to give.

I tried to bring her back to my reality. "And then she hates be forever, and, as a bonus, I fail French."

"Maybe you could ask her out in French. Romantic," she cooed, elbowing my in the rib.

I just stared. "You give horrible advice."

"Whatever."

We split ways about a block over, and I continued on to my destination. I checked my watch to make sure I would be at least five minutes early. I was surprised when I saw Miranda already standing on the steps leading to the museum. She was wearing a long skirt today. Very regal.

"Hey," I called as I walked up.

She nodded in greeting, a trait I noticed was very common for her. It was like she played a game seeing how long she could go without speaking.

"Ready to go inside?" I asked, tilting my head towards the entrance of the building.

We walked up the steps, and entered the building. Admission was free, so after a quick nod to the front desk, we were well on our way. Perhaps more for my benefit than Miranda's, I recited what I could remember of the instructions.

"So our assignment is to pick any piece of art and to describe it in French using the vocab from chapter four."

"Must we select the same painting?" Miranda asked with a drawl, raising her eyebrow.

"Yeah."

"This could be disastrous," she muttered, steeling her gaze before her as we entered the first gallery titled "Prints and Drawings."

"You really have no faith in me, do you?" I replied in a sing-song voice, matching her sarcasm. At least, I hoped it was sarcasm.

"It isn't a question of faith," she said with a note of seriousness, and I was beginning to worry that I was missing something.

"Trust then. Trust me that I'm not a complete idiot."

"It's not you I'm worried about," was her soft murmur, and before I could ask her what she meant, she was a step ahead of me, looking at the first piece hanging on the wall.

It was black and white and looked like a bunch of people praying at a pair of feet in the sky. Awkward.

Miranda waited a few more seconds, took a step back, and then moved on to the next one. I simply followed. This happened again. And again. And again.

The building smelled clean, if that even made any sense. The air felt cool. The art was okay. I eventually realized that I had begun watching Miranda more than I was looking at the art. It was ridiculous, really. The lights that hung from the ceiling in order to light the artworks seemed to highlight her and make her glow. I'd glance at her profile as we navigated the rooms and admired her face along with the numerous reactions it expressed due to the art on the walls. Occasionally, she would nod. Sometimes her mouth twitched. There was one that made her lips purse like the day she learned I was her French partner. It seemed like it was more than just a couple weeks ago.

We would pause in front of each piece for a few moments. I usually decided if I liked it right away or not and then awaited Miranda's reaction. The building was quiet. I knew there usually wasn't a lot of talking when a person went to a museum, but I could practically hear Miranda's mind buzzing as we looked at each piece, and it was killing me not to ask, not to know.

I really was giving it an honest try to appreciate the art, but what was I supposed to do when the woman beside me was exceedingly more beautiful and engaging than any of scraps on the walls?

"What do you think she's thinking about?" I asked in a low voice, half-expecting Miranda to blow me off and keep walking. I was referring to the image before us of a woman reclining in sometime of old sofa.

"The manner in which she's suggestively revealing the entirety of her leg and thigh might mean something. The artist has many other more well-known works of women wearing significantly less," she explained in a soft tone that only I could hear.

"She looks sad. Or tired. Not really right for sex," I mumbled, squinting and trying to figure out the expression on the shakily drawn face. I was trying really hard not to think about sex while I was standing next to the woman that had been recently starring in some late night dreams that were costing me a great deal of sleep.

"Matisse was one of the leaders of Fauvism, a style that focused on qualities like wilder brushwork and striking colors. This may just be a lithograph, but the meaning of this piece for the artist most likely did not solely rely on an accurate representation or communicating anything specific about the woman. It's about the approach, though this one is certainly more controlled than his others."

Um, what?

She leaned forward to investigate the small plague that identified the painting along with its artist and the year of its creation. "Ah, 1929. Numerous artists tended to return to some sense of order in their works after World War I. That explains his control here. Quite fascinating."

I just stood there with my mouth hanging open. I didn't know if I should cry or kiss her or just ask her to never stop talking about art ever again.

"I give up. How am I supposed to even say anything to follow that?" I gushed with a chuckle.

"You could tell me how knowledgeable I am," she replied, turning to move to the next work, but not without smirking deviously at me over her shoulder.

"You already know how smart you are," I countered, taking quick steps to return to her side. I couldn't help smiling.

"Perhaps I want to hear you say it."

"So you were just showing off to try and impress me?" I questioned, my interest in art suddenly peaking dramatically.

"Not at all. You've simply stepped into my world," she mused, her arm gesturing to the room, "This is what torments my mind when it comes to selecting shoes in the morning or finding the right accessory. An amassed history of art and symbolism plagues me wherever I go. So tell me, Andrea," she commanded in a low tone with shining eyes, "what you think."

My mind was trying to understand why she cared so much about what I thought. The whole process was made difficult by my body crying out at this woman's deliciously evil smile.

_Miranda likes art. Get her to show you art. Words, Sachs._

"Show me more," was my firm answer, before I was walking away, trying to hide my flushing cheeks.

This time, when we stepped before a painting or drawing, Miranda spoke. It was incredible how much she knew, and I found myself questions that made her eagerly continue with more and more.

* * *

"Which should we write on?" I asked, blinking into the sunlight as we left the building.

"You choose." She could probably write a beautiful essay on any of them.

"I liked the one with the people looking up at the ceiling. I think it was supposed to be the Louvre," I said, vaguely recalling a mass of faces looking up.

"Daumier's piece," Miranda stated authoritatively before her eyebrow flickered upwards, "Why?"

"I think I'm more interested in portraits of people. It's like they have more of a story to tell, and I wish I could ask them what it was."

"What is that work's story?"

"That one may be a bit too obvious. The title was something about Parisians examining the new roof at the Louvre painted by an artist. It'll be a bit easier for someone like me to write about in French though."

"Delacroix painted the roof."

"Thanks," I smirked, and she turned away. Was she actually embarrassed about knowing so much?

"It is terribly convenient you've selected a French artist," she asserted, looking forward in the direction we were walking.

"I guess that would make it easier to write about too."

We took a few more paces before we reached the sidewalk, and I turned to face her and say goodbye before we split into different directions. My apartment wasn't the same way as her dorm.

Before I could say anything, she questioned with her hands on her hips, "Well?"

"Well, what?" I was totally lost.

She simply stared at me for a few moments before huffing with a dramatic sigh and waving her arm towards the museum. Oh.

She was asking what I thought of the exhibit. Again.

"For someone that was so cynical about taking me to the museum for a school assignment, you seem very concerned with how I felt about the trip," I observed slowly, trying to test my theory that even the great Miranda could be a little self-conscious about showing someone something that was important to her.

Her jaw set, and her eyes bore into mine. I imagined I could hear her growling.

"I had fun today, smarty-pants," I declared with a smile, one I hoped she knew was genuine. Her eyes narrowed at the nickname.

My smile grew. "It's kind of the perfect nickname for you because you're smart, you're sarcastic, and you love clothes."

She rolled her eyes, but her usual reserved smirk returned despite what seemed like her best efforts to keep glaring at me.

"I was concerned with your ability to tolerate my dedication to the study of art," she said casually, crossing her arms.

So I was right. Miranda's glares and comments before the venture into the building had made sense. Some part of her actually had the capacity to be nervous. She was sharing something she truly loved with me, and that was a scary feat for anyone.

"It was good I had you around. I didn't have to read any of the descriptions of things since you could just tell me," I replied, trying to make it sound like I wasn't growing more and more attracted to her every time she opened her mouth.

"I'm severely disappointed in your work ethic," she sighed, but I knew that playful glimmer in her eyes.

"I didn't read them because I'm lazy. I just liked your version better."

If Miranda was capable of pouting, I was positive she would have been as I turned away to go home with a laugh.

* * *

"Alright, so Scott's got the game with Penn State covered this upcoming weekend, and we should probably check out the women's soccer team this week since they've been doing well this season."

"I got it."

Every Tuesday night, we had the weekly meeting for the _Daily Northwestern_ when I assigned stories and we all figured out the upcoming week's paper. It was the bane of my existence as an editor.

"And that about wraps up Sports section. What's up with Campus news?" I asked, looked around at the writers.

"The freshmen get to elect their student government leaders soon."

"Nice," I said, making a note on the paper in front of me, "What about Take Back the Night? Isn't that usually in the fall?"

"I'm friends with one of the coordinators," Julia spoke up, "It's happening in the spring this year."

"Hm, bummer." The fall always felt slower than the winter and spring.

"Some graduates just opened up a cookie delivery system," one of the reporters offered to the group, "They bring you fresh baked cookies and other dessert stuff. I saw an ad for it today."

"Dude, that's fucking awesome," someone cheered, and there was a round of chuckles.

"Sounds neat. Maybe it'll fit better in City news though." I knew that section was going to be a little empty this early in the school year too.

"We can do some nice resources to appeal to freshmen, like things to do in the fall on campus with the nice weather," Sam said from his spot against the wall. We were all crammed in the lab.

"That would go nicely with some of the charity events happening for Halloween at the end of the month. You got it, Sam," I shot him a thumbs up while I marked it on my notepad.

"I think that's all the assignments for this week. Get 'em into me at the usual deadline."

The noise level increased with the general buzz of conversation as everyone stood up from their seats and started talking. I started piling my paperwork together and fielded one or two questions people had about their articles. After a few minutes, most of the crowd left, leaving a few people that stayed and took seats at the computers to get some work done.

Lily stretched as she stood from her chair and walked over to the computer seat where she had thrown her stuff.

"That meeting was too damn long."

"Rachel's got the flu, and Derek's just not producing. We need to get some more staff or else it's gonna be a long semester," I reflected. I really had to talk to our marketing manager about trying to recruit freshmen.

I was getting my notes organized when I saw a figure walk into the room out of the corner of my eye, and I looked up.

Ankle boots. Dark skinny jeans wrapped around perfectly proportioned legs. A cool shirt that looked like it had graffiti art on it. A leather jacket with a high collar. Strawberry hair that glowed against the dark clothing. Blue eyes that crackled like lighting exaggerated by a good dose of eyeliner and eye shadow and whatever else made make up happen.

I don't know how long I was staring, but it must have been a while because the woman's amused smirk slowly curled on to her face before I could address her.

"Miranda? Hey," I mumbled, trying not to stammer. She always looked good, and this was probably one of the more edgy looking thing I had every seen her wear. She looked really, really good.

"Hello," she practically purred.

"What are you doing here?" I asked slowly, desperately trying to remember how to breathe again.

"You often meet me in the studio," she coolly stated, as if the answer was obvious, and she slowly glided her eyes around the room.

"Was I supposed to today?" I forgot. That had to be it. And now she was dressed to kill and literally kill me as revenge.

"No."

Oh.

I had mentioned that I was typically in the lab when I wasn't in class or studying with her. Maybe she was…no, that couldn't be it. Could it?

"You were curious." The awe in my voice was a little too obvious.

"Hardly," she snorted, and I instantly knew that was exactly the reason why the stubborn diva was here. I immediately smiled.

She was here simply to see me.

"Hey, Lily," I called across the room, getting my friend's attention, "This is Miranda. Lily is my roommate. We've known each other since we were seven," I explained to the beautiful woman beside me, wanting them to be properly introduced.  
"Is it possible for someone to endure your company for that long?" she asked in mock-innocence, the twitching corner of her mouth giving her away as she resisted a smirk.

"Ha. Ha." I glared at her, but it wasn't enough to even terrify a hamster.

"She's right, it's tough work," Lily roared with laugher, clearly satisfied with Miranda's humor.

"Thanks, guys. Both of you are such great friends."

When I glanced back to the girl beside me, my gaze fell into hers. I didn't know how else to describe the sensation of looking into Miranda's magnificent eyes. It was like those losers that go to the beach during hurricanes. There's something breathtakingly beautiful and mind-numbingly dangerous about standing on the brink of churning waves that can swallow you whole.

These very eyes were assessing me.

"You look tired," she stated softly, not trying to tease or insult. A little wrinkle formed between he eyebrows.

"Yeah, I kinda am," I said, finally letting the length of my day seep in, "That meeting took longer than it should have."

"You should get something to eat."

It seemed like weird advice, at first. I usually connected being tired to needing sleep. But I realized her comment echoed that Friday night in the studio.

She wanted to help me escape a little like I had done for her. But of course she would never just ask.

"Do you want to come with me?" I asked with a small smile, trying not to beam happily when she nodded her head perhaps too quickly for someone just casually mentioning dinner.

I glanced over at Lily and hoped she would understand that unspoken roommate and best friend code that let her know, while I was going to invite her to be polite, I desperately wanted to be alone with the pretty, smart redhead.

I had just opened my mouth to say something when she waved me off. "Oh, don't worry about me. I was actually smart enough to eat before the meeting. See ya later."

Score.

I went to retrieve my bag sitting in the chair beside my friend, and purposely turned so that Miranda could only see my back.

I stared wide-eyed at Lily and mouthed, 'Oh. My. God."

Luckily my body concealed her face as well because she suggestively wiggled her eyebrows before almost innocently saying, "Have fun."

I slung my bag over my shoulder and tried not to suffer from a stroke as Miranda and I walked out of the room and down the hall. Didn't this girl have a casual day like everyone else when she wore sweatpants around?

"It was her clothes you were wearing last week," her voice broke through my thoughts.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I borrowed them. She's more fashion conscious than I am, but I'm trying to learn," I explained, growing nervous as I looked down at my own long sleeved shirt, "I should probably go shopping and get my own things though."

Borrowing Lily's clothes had helped give me a better idea of what stuff I might like if I decided to invest the time and money. She wore a lot of browns and greens that looked great on her coffee-like skin.

"The jacket looked nice on her," Miranda assessed before glancing towards me, "I much prefer it on you."

"Thanks." I was going to die from the butterflies viciously attacking my stomach.

"If you do decide to expand your wardrobe, stick to the same earth tones she uses," she continued as we stepped out of the building, heading towards the sidewalk.

"Why?"

"They compliment your eyes," she replied in a voice made it hard to walk in a straight line.

This night was going to be really hard if I didn't get it together. I gave myself a mental shake.

When we reached a crossroads of sorts that would determine which direction to head in, Miranda turned and asked, "Still active in your quest for spontaneity?"

"Sure, why not?" I smiled, ready to trust whatever divine interference had gotten me this far. Miranda nodded and continued walking, and I hurriedly followed before my brain could decide looking at her ass was a critical life choice. I might have imploded.

"I believe you'll enjoy an establishment that's in this direction," she declared confidently, her chin raised slightly whenever she walked like a regal figure. Which was basically all the time.

"It's not spontaneous if you know where you're going," I reasoned. I couldn't help teasing her at least a little.

"You are the one choosing to be impulsive, not me." She looked incredibly amused.

My curiosity attacked me once again. "When was the last time you just said, screw it, and did something random?"

Miranda paused a moment before answering, "Approximately twenty minutes ago."

"Visiting me in the lab?" She ignored me in her typical style when she thought I was asking questions that had already been answered. Her reveal left me thinking.

I didn't know if I should feel concerned or overjoyed.

As we continued into town and students mixed with city-dwellers, I couldn't help but admire Miranda's demanding presence. She always commanded her space. When she wasn't carrying her bag, she looked somewhat older, like the satchel immediately marked her as a student. I asked her briefly about her day before we came to a stop in front a shop with an intense yellow sign and awning.

"It's a diner," I muttered, not really sure what I could have expected when Miranda announced she was picking dinner.

"An astute observation, Andrea," was the sarcastic reply.

I turned to her with raised eyebrows. "Is this place even fancy enough for you to look at?"

"Perhaps I'm more mysterious than you estimated," she hummed, her sinful little smirk taunting me as she walked towards the door. I managed to hold it open for her before she could get to it. I didn't really know what was about to happen, but I was going to be a proper gentlewoman about it.

The name on the front of the restaurant had read "Edzo's." The bright yellow and orange layout of the store certainly made it feel older with a bit more polish than I had anticipated. They still had an old-fashioned bar with the circular seats you always saw in movies like _Grease_. It was pretty cute. A hostess herded us to a table properly stocked with over six bottles of various burger condiments. The place seemed legit.

It felt almost surreal as I watched Miranda over the top of my menu eyeing which burgers we should select.

"You eat meat," I stated, though I suppose I meant it as more of a question.

She flashed me a look that let me know I was stating the obvious.

"I assumed you were vegetarian for some reason," I explained with a frown, continuing my investigation of the menu. Maybe I had bought into the whole art student stereotype. Still, the thought of Miranda digging into a burger just fried my brain.

"How often do you come here?"

"Once a week," she smoothly answered, folding her menu and placing it at the edge of the table. Her eyes began inspecting me, and I swallowed roughly. I was super bad at making food choices.

When the waitress greeted us and asked for our orders, I still wasn't ready. I had lost track of time daydreaming about Miranda's dietary habits behind my menu. After the redhead ordered, I just looked at the waitress and told her I'd be having the same thing.

When Miranda arched her eyebrow at me, all I could do was shrug and smile.

"So, once a week? You must really like it here."

"I take comfort in how old it feels," she gently explained, her gaze leaving mine to glance around the store. I guessed it was slow simply because it was a Tuesday night.

"I think you'd manage well in a different time period. The way you talk feels extravagant," I explained following her perusal of the restaurant. When my gaze returned to her, she was giving me a skeptical, questioning look.

"You know, like, I could see you in a petticoat hanging out during the Victorian Era or rocking a flapper dress in the 20s."

She snorted, "I sincerely doubt they had diners in England during Queen Victoria's reign."

"True. You'd probably be in France anyway showing off how smart you are in a salon," I chuckled, and she rolled her eyes at me despite the smirk that remained on her face.

She was so beautiful.

"Why do you like the oldness of this place?"

Miranda glanced at me and sighed before she murmured, "When I was quite young, my mother worked at a diner similar to this one."

"That's cool," I said casually, hiding my surprise at how much she was sharing, "What does she do now?"

"She's employed at a department store." Her voice was firm. Factual. I wasn't sure what to say next.

"What about your dad?"

"I wouldn't know," she answered evenly, her eyes turning towards the restaurant. She rested her head in her hand, and I took the hint that this was territory we weren't quite ready to dive into just yet.

"Did you ever color on the menus with crayons?" I asked, trying to bring her mind back from wherever she went, "I feel like little Miranda would like to color a lot."

Glittering eyes returned to mine, and she sarcastically drawled, "Oh, yes, I came out of the womb bursting with artistic talent."

"You wouldn't burst in," I declared, leaning back in my chair, "You'd just sophisticatedly acknowledge the doctors before glaring at the other babies for crying all the time."

At that, I earned a smile that I would have endured a thousand French classes to see. And, as if the universe had decided making Miranda smile was the greatest thing I could possibly do, I was then rewarded with the waitress bringing us our burgers.

They were big and came with a mountain of fries. I controlled myself from immediately picking mine up and diving in, and I instead watched Miranda. She placed a napkin on her lap. She delicately picked up the burger. She took a bite, somehow managing not to leave any traces of the interaction on her mouth. Only this girl could somehow find a way to look graceful eating a freakin' burger.

I looked down and threw caution to the wind. Might as well enjoy myself if it was going to be an embarrassing process. I took a bite. And I groaned with pleasure.

Damn, these were good. Turns out Miranda had good taste in more than just clothes.

Miranda was smiling at me again, and I busied myself with another bite and tried to start a conversation that didn't involve my euphoric eating noises.

"You know, my ex always said that the cheese was the most important part of any sandwich."

"Are they some type of food connoisseur that would give this opinion any value?" she asked, again not denying her voice any sarcasm.

I swallowed my bite before continuing, "He wants to be a chef. He's majoring in Economics so he can own a restaurant one day."

Miranda tilted her head. "You speak of him fondly."

"He was a good friend. Just not a good boyfriend," I added picking up a French fry and popping it into my mouth.

"Was?"

"We don't really talk much anymore. I don't think he really gets why I called it off," I replied before taking another bite. When she kept staring at me, I knew she was silently asking more. I finished chewing before I continued.

"I just felt like whenever I was stressed or upset, it wasn't as critical as when he was. Like my journalism assignments weren't allowed to be difficult when he was cramming for a math heavy econ exam or something. I don't know. It was just the little stuff over time. Maybe that makes me sound selfish," I finished with a frown.

Miranda set down her burger and patted her napkin on her lips before she said, "There is no universal standard for what is hard or difficult because everyone struggles with something different. He shouldn't have compared the weight of your personal challenges but rather measured individual integrity in conquering them. If his instinct was to attack your situation rather than mustering the strength to handle his own, he was at fault, Andrea, not you. Mutual respect is key in any type of relationship," she finished, her eyes looking for something in mine. I felt vulnerable, and yet I trusted her. I couldn't help but smile at her genuine declaration.

"Sometimes I forget you're the girl that ran away from me when she learned we'd have to be partners," I teased, shyly smiling.

"I naively denied you respect, and you demanded it of me. Now I actively give it."

"Same here," I stated, feeling like I was swearing an oath. I guess I kind of was. I wanted her to know that I was a worthy investment of her time.

I took another bite of my burger and wondered if Miranda knew as much about relationships as she let on.

Wait. What if she was in one, and I just didn't know?

I slowly finished with the fry that was in my mouth before I tried to ask oh so casually, "So, are you seeing anyone?"

Miranda paused in her process of selecting a fry. "Like I said, mutual respect is key. Not many individuals invest the energy and time in earning my respect," she explained matter-of-factly, delicately placing the morsel in her mouth once she finished speaking.

I tried not to breathe a massive sigh of relief. Our dinner was able to continue on in relative piece. We discussed what we had each written for our assignment, and that led to some topics of what Miranda was doing in her art classes and a story about a vacation my family had taken to New York to see a bunch of art museums. Miranda was in the middle of recounting her own trip to the city when the waitress returned to tempt us with dessert. The fahsionista declined.

The waitress then asked, "Do you ladies need separate checks?"

I didn't even realize what I was saying until I heard my voice reply, "No, one's fine."

The young woman removed our written orders from her pad and placed it on our table with a smile. I tried to cover my surprise with myself by calmly removing my wallet from my book bag in the chair beside me. I glanced at Miranda. I couldn't read her face. I paid, and we left.

"Thanks for showing me one of your favorite places," I said with a smirk as we turned down the street to return to campus.

"Thank you for dinner," she countered in an even tone, and I could feel her inspecting me as I looked forward.

I nonchalantly added, "Next time I'll have to show you one of mine."

"You assume there will be a next time," she drawled, her tone turning cold.

Shit. I fucked up. I really messed up. Now she was mad I had paid, and I was going to have to beg.

This silent brooding continued in my head for what felt like hours before I heard her softly mutter, "Are you aware that when you panic, your face mirrors the likeness of a deer in headlights?"

It was a joke.

I turned to her with a pout. "I'm pretty gullible."

"Not a positive trait for a journalist, one would assume," she smirked, and I couldn't help but beam at the small smile I had put on her face even if it was at the expense of my mental stability.

"I'm usually better at reading people. You're a good actress."

She grinned playfully. "I suppose one should have a back up if a career in fashion proves unsuccessful."

As we got closer to the dorms, a small group of students approached us on the sidewalk, and I stepped to the side in order to give them enough room. My hand accidently brushed Miranda's. I inhaled sharply.

I felt like I was in middle school again. Here I was, a mature woman with a sexual history and a college education, and I was getting nervous just at the pathetic little thought of holding Miranda's hand.

I don't think I released my breath until we were standing outside her dorm. I hadn't exactly planned on walking her home, but, considering how well my brain had been communicating with my body lately, I wasn't too surprised. I turned and smiled to say goodbye.

"I guess I'll see you in class tomorrow."

I was waiting for her usual affirmative nod, expecting her to then turn and leave. But neither came.

"Considering you've followed me across campus after our class before, I'm fairly certain you have free time immediately following French tomorrow," she stated, her eyes questioning me.

"Um, yeah."

Her gaze flashed from my face to my shoes before returning back up.

"Nigel and I require a model."

"For what?" I stuttered, already picturing me tripping down a runway or something.

"To sketch."

"Oh." That didn't sound too bad.

"Okay, sure. I just sit there?"

"Indeed," she confirmed with a slight nod of her head.

My eyes narrowed suspiciously. "This isn't one of those art things where I have to be naked, right?"

Miranda's mouth trembled, and I could see she was trying incredibly hard not to laugh.

"Given his past relations, I doubt Nigel would appreciate it, if that were in fact the case."

Before I could stop myself, I asked, "What about you?"

I thought she would roll her eyes. Or maybe scoff at me. Instead, the vixen grinned wickedly before she crooned, "Goodnight, Andrea."

My mouth dropped as I watched her walk away into her dorm.

* * *

A/N: I would like to thank the Internet for all the art pieces that can be found at the Northwestern University museum and all the burger joints around campus. SO. I think you guys will like the next chapter. More Nigel. Meeting Emily. Things are really heating up with our girls. As always, please review. You guys have been so awesome, and that's really what makes this story happen.


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